Page 16 of Pack Baby for the Bratva
Our child. Our omega. Our future.
I pressed harder on the accelerator. The car surged forward, the engine a deep, satisfying growl.
"Slow down," Artem said, but there was no real reproach in his voice. He was leaning forward now, his eyes on the road ahead as if he could see her if he just looked hard enough.
Gregor’s voice cut through the hum of the engine. "We’ll be there in six hours at this rate."
"Five if I push it," I said.
Artem didn’t argue. He just nodded, his hand tightening on the door handle as I took a corner a little too fast.
The rain eased as we left London behind, the sky lightening to a dull, watery gray. The fields stretched out on either side of the road, flat and green under the overcast sky. I wantedto roll down the windows and breathe in the damp, earthy air. But didn’t. The windows stayed up. The air stayed in. The only sounds were the hum of the engine, the rhythmic swoosh of the wipers, and the occasional, reluctant note from Gregor’s throat.
Mary’s words echoed in my head.
She’s very lucky.
I hoped she knew that. I hoped she felt that, even now, even after running. Because we were coming. And when we found her everything would change.
We stopped for fuel outside of Nottingham. Artem insisted. He said we needed to "maintain operational efficiency," which was his way of saying he didn’t trust me not to drive the car into a ditch or run out of fuel from sheer excitement.
Gregor took the opportunity to check the weapons in the trunk, which was standard procedure, though I doubted we’d need them. Not for her. Never for her.
Mary’s face flashed in my mind, her grin when she’d teased me about marrying her. She was safe. She was fine. And she was right. Our omega was lucky. Because when we found her, we weren’t letting her go. Not again.
Artem was on his phone when we got back in the car, his voice low as he barked orders at someone on the other end.
I pulled back onto the motorway, the car eating up the miles. The sign for Leicester flashed past. Then the landscape changed, the flat fields giving way to rolling hills, the air growing cooler as we drove into Yorkshire.
Gregor’s phone buzzed. He answered it with a grunt, listened for a second, and said, "Your father wants to talk to you, Artem. He wants to know why you’re not answering your phone."
Artem’s fingers tightened on his phone. "Because I've blocked him?"
“He blocked you,” Gregor grunted.
“You didn’t have to tell him. Give me your phone.” Artem took Gregor’s phone. “She’s fine… and safe. I don’t care. I’ll talk to you in a few days.” He disconnected.
“Do we have an address for her yet?” I asked.
Artem checked his phone. “Not yet. I’ve got a person looking through the street camera footage looking for her.”
The signs for Newcastle passed by, and we were getting so close now.
Artem’s voice was quiet when we went through the border into Scotland. "Ivan."
"Yes."
"When we get there. Nobody touches her. Nobody speaks to her. Nobody breathes in her direction until I’ve spoken to her first."
"Understood." I’ll let him have the first moment because god has he suffered.
"Gregor."
"Boss."
"If she runs because she will try to run, because that is what she does–”
“She’s pregnant. I doubt she can run very far,” Gregor quipped.
